Very likely by this time the whole truth is known. She was not Madame Melusine Valade. A fine doctor from the Arte de Medici e Speziali was commissioned directly from Rome to oversee her care. And Ann Veronica walked beside him, trying in vain to soften her heart to him by the thought of how she had ill-used him, and all the time, as her feet and mind grew weary together, rejoicing more and more that at the cost of this one interminable walk she escaped the prospect of—what was it?—“Ten thousand days, ten thousand nights” in his company. She was ashamed of herself for the simple gladness she felt wash over her as the infant’s screams ended. “You propose, then,” she remarked, “that I shall still be saddled with a pseudo husband. Monsieur Valade heaved a gusty sigh, and Gerald, with heavy diplomacy and a forced heartiness of manner, turned the subject. Professing to stand between the robber and the robbed, he himself plundered both. “Katy Pfister. ” “And you?” Annabel exclaimed.
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